


Feed a Cold, Starve a Fever ...

by baranduin



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Comfort Food, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Invalid fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no fun being shut up all alone with a Fever of Unknown Origin while everyone else in Edoras is out celebrating and having fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feed a Cold, Starve a Fever ...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Febobe for her birthday](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Febobe+for+her+birthday).



> Written around 2003.

Rohan was a wide land of big skies arching over plains and mountains. The grassy sea spilled down from the Emyn Muil’s stony boundary onto the East Emnet and ran westward through the Eastfold north of the jagged spine of the White Mountains until Meduseld’s golden roof glinted its welcome to travelers. Mild winters and warm but not painfully hot summers nourished every blade of grass and rocky promontory. A man could breathe deeply in Rohan and find heart’s ease in its cool, clean air and open spaces. 

At least, that’s what Aragorn had told Frodo when discussing the lands south of the Misty Mountains. 

Hmph. If that was the case, then what was he doing sweltering in this stuffy little room, seemingly abandoned to his sticky fate while every other living soul in this wretched, horse-dung covered country (not to mention quite a few from Rivendell, Lothlorien and Gondor) celebrated the nuptials of Faramir and Eowyn? And weren’t broad-timbered buildings with thick stone walls supposed to be renowned for their ability to stay cool in the face of torrid, unrelenting heat? 

Perhaps the architects of Edoras could have learned a few tricks from the builders of Brandy Hall, that warren of Brandybucks which, no matter how crowded it grew of a summer, managed to stay earth-cool. 

"Drat," Frodo said and thrashed in his lumpy bed, the creased, damp sheets wrapped around his legs as he tried once more to find a comfortable position. It was early evening and, like clockwork, his fever was abating. Just as it had the past three weeks—tormenting him with chills and bodily aches and pains during the day, only to leave him limp and muzzy-headed as the sun set. 

Aragorn and Gandalf had reassured Frodo during the journey from Minas Tirith to Edoras that, once arrived, he would be much more comfortable and they would be able to take better care of him. All things considered, Frodo thought he might prefer to be back on the road, bumping along in the back of the cart. At least he had been able to stare out at the passing landscape though he had been lonely, with little company to pass the time of day. Aragorn had declared that, since the cause of his fever was yet a mystery and it was possible that it might spread, he had to be kept from other people as much as possible. Especially from Sam, Merry and Pippin as Frodo’s fever might be of the type which preys on folk who travel far from home. 

At the time, he’d thought traveling at the back of the long line of horses and carts with no one to talk to was terribly lonely. He’d been wrong. At least then he was able to stare out at the sky and, in his floating fever state of consciousness, dream up fanciful creatures out of the puffy white clouds that seemed to follow him. Not that they had talked to him—he’d not been _that_ far gone. 

And since Frodo was a scrupulously honest Baggins of Hobbiton (unlike certain hyphenated branches of the family that he could name), he also had to admit that he hadn’t been left on his own the entire journey. Oh, no, several times a day Aragorn or Gandalf had shown up to poke and prod him, ask the same mind-numbing questions about intimate physical matters that were no concern of theirs, and—worst of all—force down the bitter willow bark and lemon balm tea. They both said that it would ease his fever, though as far as Frodo could see—perhaps _feel_ was more apt—the only thing that lessened his fever each day was the setting of the sun. 

The sun was assuredly setting again, on this third evening after Faramir and Eowyn’s wedding, as Frodo was feeling cooler and the fever chills that plagued him during the day were gone once more. When someone knocked on his door, he called out, "Come in!" and tried to sit up straight in bed, probably a little too quickly for the room spun around before it righted itself. But he wanted to look his best for his visitor since he knew it could not be Gandalf or Aragorn. They never knocked, instead sweeping into the room with long-winded assurances of his supposed improvement and very unsatisfactory descriptions of the wedding festivities. Not that he blamed them. They were busy with many cares, and he knew that. 

When the door opened, Frodo found to his delight that he had not one but two visitors: Faramir and Eowyn. 

"May we come in?" Eowyn asked, the faint smile on her lovely face overshadowed with lines of worry. 

"Of course!" Frodo said, running his fingers through his tangled hair and taking a surreptitious sniff of his armpit. _Bother!_ Why hadn’t he let Aragorn bathe him and wash his hair properly that morning when there’d been time? Oh, no, he’d lain there in bed, as his fever soared, and glared at poor Aragorn, forcing the Lord of the West to mount a furious attack just to get him to swallow the willow bark tea. Truth to tell, he’d done the same thing an hour or so ago when Gandalf had appeared to check on him and bring him his wretched supper. Not that he’d eaten the lumpy stew or coarse bread. 

The newlyweds moved quickly to Frodo’s bedside, Faramir’s arm around Eowyn’s waist. While Faramir asked Frodo how he was feeling and Frodo tried to be circumspect about the tedium of his condition, Eowyn looked around the room, her lips pursing tightly and her eyes darkening with what looked to Frodo to be anger. 

Finally, she said in a low voice, "Frodo, I must apologize for this room’s shortcomings. I was terribly dismayed and surprised to hear where you have been lodged."

Frodo didn’t quite know what to do or say. Yes, it was true that the room was small and too warm, the mattress was lumpy, and the bedside table wobbled. But he’d realized that Edoras was not large and, after all, the kingdom of Rohan had been troubled for many years, so he had not wanted to make a fuss. Anyway, he hadn’t had the will or the strength to take more the dozen steps to reach the privy, much less demand better accommodations and amusing company. 

When he said, "It is fine, truly it is," his halting words didn’t ring true even in his own ears, and they certainly did not convince Eowyn or Faramir. 

Faramir turned to Eowyn and said, "Surely we can remedy the situation, my lady?" 

With a flash of her eyes, Eowyn answered, "Oh, we certainly can." A few steps and she was at the door, opening it and clapping her hands. When a servant appeared, she spoke in a low, rapid voice. Frodo strained to catch her words—"water ... towels ... from this morning, ask Cook ... the extra feather ..."—but lay back flushing when Faramir caught his eye and winked. After watching the servant leave, his footsteps echoing rapidly down the stone corridor, Eowyn shut the door and turned back to Frodo, her hands on her hips. 

"We’ll have you much more comfortable very soon." She continued talking while she wandered about the little bed chamber and tidied up things. "Though we are sorely tried for space here with so many grand folk to lodge, nevertheless this was a poor choice, and I shall do my best to give you better ease." She laughed. "I’m afraid I only heard late last night where exactly you had been stowed. Believe me, Eomer has been avoiding me all day." 

Faramir chuckled. "You should have heard her, Frodo ... and seen poor Eomer after she finished giving him his tongue lashing." He sat on Frodo’s bed but jumped up when it creaked in a most alarming way. "Ah. Well, as I was starting to say, if I’d known about her temper before the wedding ..." 

Oh, it felt good to laugh wholeheartedly, and it wasn’t just Faramir’s teasing words about his bride. The look of mock anger Eowyn threw at her husband was priceless. "Oh, so say you, my lord husband? And would you flee from me now that you have seen my true character?" 

It took only a split second for Faramir to take Eowyn in his arms and kiss her soundly on her mouth. "Nay, it is too late. And I like your temper, especially when it aims to right a grievous wrong." 

Frodo watched them fondly, his smile fading when he thought how much it would have pleased him to be present at their wedding. When he sank back against his thin pillow, his head thumping against the rough wall, the happy couple rushed to either side of his bed and knelt by his side.

"Forgive us, Frodo," Faramir said, his fair face full of regret. "I am afraid we are besotted and little conscious of those around us. Do you suffer greatly? Shall we call Aragorn or Gandalf?" 

"No," Frodo said. "I am fine ... the evenings are always better. And I am happy to see you though surely you can find something more entertaining to occupy yourselves." 

"Not until I am assured that you are more comfortable," Eowyn said, stroking Frodo’s forehead with a cool palm. "Your head is warm but not terribly so. Gandalf has told me that it comes and goes." 

"Yes," Frodo murmured. "Like clockwork. I wake up in the morning ... oh, starting when we left Minas Tirith ... and my temperature rises. It always goes away, at least somewhat, in the evening." 

"And your head, does it hurt?" 

"Mm hm. Not terribly much but it’s always there in the background. Makes it difficult to concentrate on much of anything." 

"Well, all you need concentrate on for the next hour or so is being cleaned up and then eating." 

Frodo shook his head. "No, it’s not necessary. Aragorn will help me in the morning. And I could not eat anything. I’ve ... I’ve had supper already anyway." 

Eowyn gave Frodo a sharp look before standing up and going to a table across the room that held the remnants of Frodo’s meal. She picked up the full bowl of congealing stew and sniffed it, her nose wrinkling. 

"And was this a second bowl that you could not finish after devouring the first since of course it was so savory?" 

Frodo laughed and shook his head. 

"And I do not blame you for not eating more than a spoonful. It doesn’t look very appetizing to me, and I feel exceedingly well. But for someone who is feverish and ill, well it’s a wonder something like this did not make you more ill. Do not worry. I think I can tempt your appetite with something a little more delicate. And I promise you that you will be provided for more fittingly in the days to come ... I’m afraid the servants have been so overly occupied with all the feasting that they have—as well as I—treated you poorly." 

Though Frodo smiled and said thank you, he did not really think that his appetite could be tempted by anything, not even the sweetest berries from Rivendell. But he said nothing more, not wanting to seem ungrateful for the kind attention. 

Soon there came a knock at the door and then a veritable parade of servants, carrying various and sundry items all designed to improve Frodo’s comfort—a stack of towels, soaps and brushes, clean sheets, covers, even what looked like a feather bed, a wooden screen that folded in on itself for ease of storage, two sturdy men carrying a wooden hip bath which made Frodo flush at the sight, several servants carrying coppers of hot water and cold, and one servant bringing up the rear carrying a very large wooden tray covered by a white cloth. 

Eowyn marshaled her army of servants, giving her orders in a clipped voice that warmed Frodo’s heart. The hip bath and the coppers of water were soon partially hidden by the screen, which gave Frodo some hope for his personal modesty. And just as quickly as they had entered the room, the servants filed out, each bowing to Eowyn with lowered eyes. 

When she had shut the door, Eowyn turned to Frodo and smiled. "Faramir will help you with your bath while I straighten up your room and make sure your supper is in good order." 

It did not surprise Frodo that, when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, he went a bit wobbly and clutched at Faramir’s sleeve for support. "Careful!" 

Though it embarrassed Frodo a little, he had to confess to himself that being picked up and carried to the hip bath by Faramir was much more comfortable, not to mention efficient since he might well have fallen flat on his face. 

Faramir knelt down at the side of the bath, his arms slung loosely around Frodo’s waist to support the hobbit as he leaned against the tub. They watched Eowyn fill it, alternating hot water with cold, and set towels, wash cloths and soap on a stool within easy reach for Faramir. 

After she finished, she said, "I will leave you to your bath, Frodo. If Faramir tries to dunk your head too much, cry out and I shall make him stop." Smiling broadly, she arranged the screen until it formed a private alcove. "Take your time. I’ve plenty to arrange and remake." 

"Thank you," Frodo called as he slipped off his nightshirt and climbed into the bath, leaning on Faramir’s arm for balance. Though he’d had his doubts about immersing himself in warm water considering the heat and his fever, once he’d settled in it, he practically wept with relief. 

"Oh, that’s good." 

Faramir grinned, and Frodo would have grinned back but he’d melted into a boneless mass of hobbit by then, so he settled for watching the man lean back on his haunches and roll up his shirt sleeves. 

"You don’t need to do that," Frodo murmured. "If you could just hand me a washcloth and soap, I’m sure I can manage." 

With a nod in the direction of the sounds emanating from beyond the screen, Faramir whispered, "What? And risk the wrath of my wife? I think not." 

It would have been ungentlehobbity to resist after receiving such a delightful confidence, so Frodo gave himself up to the pleasures of the bath. In after years, he recalled that warm summer evening, being bathed by none other than the Prince of Ithilien, with abiding fondness. Faramir turned out to have the most marvelously strong hands that seemed to be formed specially to give a dirty, sweaty, slightly limp hobbit a thorough yet pleasurable washing. As a point of fact, it was one of the best baths of Frodo’s life; since he always kept careful track of memorable baths, this one went on his list with a great gold star next to the entry. 

And it was all done in very orderly fashion. Given Faramir’s soldierly background, it did not surprise Frodo that he went about bathing a sick hobbit with precision, starting by scrubbing his feet. No haphazardness there, like the way Frodo washed himself in Bag End after a nice long soak! Though Frodo knew there was no actual connection between hobbits and cats, he was surprised he did not start purring when Faramir massaged his feet. At last he could see the benefits of having an illness that weakened one just enough to be cared for bodily but that did not preclude one from enjoying the care. 

"Can you lean forward? I want to scrub your back," Faramir said. The surface of the steamy bath rose up at an alarming speed when Frodo tried to comply, but Faramir caught him just before he would have plunged face first into the water and braced his chest with a strong forearm. "Careful ... I’ve got you. Lean against me." The effects of the fever, little food, too many bitter-tasting teas and soaking in hot water was apparently too much for Frodo to control his movements sufficiently. He was glad of Faramir’s arm holding him steady and even gladder of resting his head against Faramir’s shoulder while the man scrubbed his back with a washcloth that was just scratchy enough to both give him a good cleaning and stimulate his skin. 

"Are you two ever going to be finished?"

Frodo tilted up his head, and Faramir winked at him. "Almost! It’s not so easy to clean a hobbit, you know. The feet are a challenge ... oof!" Frodo was not so weak that he couldn’t find the gap between two ribs with a sharp elbow. 

"Well, finish soon." Frodo smiled at the impatience in Eowyn’s voice. This was turning out to be a most pleasant evening. 

"Hold your breath, Frodo." 

Frodo complied and not a moment too soon, for he found himself lifted up and plunged beneath the water in short order. For a minute, words of complaint were on the tip of his tongue, but that was before Faramir poured softly-scented soap on his head and began rubbing his scalp most thoroughly. Frodo had thought the foot massage that began his bath had been nice, but given the pleasant sensations coursing through his body now, he had not known the meaning of the word. 

Too soon, the bath was over, and Frodo found himself being wrapped in large linen towels and rubbed briskly all over before being told to raise his arms. The clean nightshirt that Faramir slipped over his head was not Frodo’s, but it was so soft and smelled so nicely of fresh air and green grass that he had nothing to complain of, though he did wonder whose it was. It was not new; he could tell that by running his hands over its well-laundered, ivory linen. If it had been new, the fabric would not have been soft and supple as well-cured suede. But perhaps it was this strange sense of well-being in the midst of being ill that made the nightshirt seem so soft and smooth beneath his fingertips. Somehow everything he had touched since he had entered the hip bath had seemed heightened in its physical appeal, no matter its commonplace texture—the warm bath water lapping around his shoulders, the roughness of the wash cloth, the smoothness of the soap, the strength of Faramir’s fingers. Oh, yes, he must remember to make note of this bath for posterity’s sake. 

When Faramir picked him up to carry him back to bed and rounded the screen, Frodo’s mouth fell open for it seemed that he’d been taken to a new room. A more careful inspection reassured Frodo that it was the same room if much tidier, though the bed appeared much more inviting after Eowyn’s attentions to it. The mattress looked higher, and when Faramir set Frodo down on it, Frodo sighed with happiness for all the lumps seemed to have been magically smoothed away. 

Frodo smiled happily at Eowyn. "Thank you! What did you do?" 

"That old mattress was so uneven and lumpy, I could not bear the thought of you having to lie in it again. ‘Tis but a feather bed from my bed chamber laid on top of the old one. It gives one a marvelous ease, does it not?" 

The pleasure at the comfort of it was not so great that Frodo did not feel a little pang of worry that he’d deprived Eowyn of her own ease. But when he went to open his mouth to protest, Faramir forestalled him. 

"Now, Frodo. We’ll have no argument from you." 

"But it is so soon after your wedding. I would not ..." 

Faramir quirked his mouth up. "I have heard that hobbits give presents to all when it is their birthday, rather than the other way round. Yes?" 

"Y- yes." 

"Then think of this as Eowyn’s and my wedding present to you." 

Well, Frodo couldn’t argue with that reasoning, not that he was terribly disposed to considering how utterly agreeable it was to lie on soft clean sheets on top of the feather bed. Practically like floating. Hm, the floating was probably his weakened state, which he’d nearly forgotten with the pleasure of the bath and the surprise of his remade bed.

"Thank you," he said and stretched, relishing the feel of the sheets against his toes. "I’m sure I shall sleep very well. It doesn’t even feel so terribly stuffy in here any more." 

Eowyn was standing at the table across the room with her back to Frodo and Faramir, squeezing something held in cheesecloth. With a quick look over her shoulder, she said, "I’m sure you shall after your supper." 

_Drat_. He’d almost forgotten about Eowyn’s assertion that he should eat supper; he was not hungry and hadn’t been for days though he knew he should be, given how little he’d had for the last few weeks. The thinning process that had begun all those months before had come back with a vengeance while he’d bumped along the road from Minas Tirith to Rohan. It was just that everything he’d been given was so unappealing and dull—chunks of coarse bread, lumpy stews with great hunks of tough meat. Poor food had not bothered him so much in years past when circumstances made it unavoidable, but now for some reason it did. And what was Eowyn doing with her back to him? Frodo propped himself up against the wall, though he did not feel their roughness with the extra pillows behind his back and neck. Well, whatever she was doing, it did not seem to involve large hunks of meat or bread. 

Frodo did not have long to wait to find out just what Faramir’s bride was doing, for she soon brought a tumbler to him and held it out. "Drink this." 

Taking the tumbler in his hand—holding it with both hands for it was wide and round—Frodo peered at the bright orange liquid. He did not wish to seem ungrateful, but then again, he was not completely sure of the abilities of any of the Rohan folk to produce something palatable for a hobbit. "What is it?" he asked and then flushed. If he’d had a hand free, he would have clapped one over his mouth. 

But Eowyn did not seem to take offense. Instead, she laughed. "Carrot juice, freshly ground and squeezed for you. It is useful for those suffering from intermittent fever ... tastes good, too. Try it. Please? Just a swallow and then you can spit it out if it displeases you." 

When Frodo took a sip and the fresh sweetness of carrot slipped down his throat, he sighed happily. Oh, no, there was no need to spit out any of this elixir! It was easily as good as Elrond’s miruvor that Gandalf had doled out so carefully during the journey from Rivendell to Moria. Well, maybe it was not _quite_ so good, but Frodo thought he might be forgiven for such an exaggeration considering what he’d had recently. "Delicious!" he said after he’d taken another swallow or two. 

Faramir and Eowyn beamed at each other across the bed, sitting in straight-backed chairs on either side, and watched as Frodo sipped away at the carrot juice. It was as delightful a supper as he’d ever had, and no mistake, as Sam might say. Too soon the tumbler was empty and Frodo was hard put to it not to lick the remaining droplets from its curved insides. Not that he had much opportunity to do such an unmannerly thing for Eowyn took the glass from him and brought it back to the table. 

"Thank you," Frodo said and started to slide down in bed. "I’m sure I shall sleep right away." 

Faramir said, "Oh, I don’t think you’re done, not yet. Is he, Eowyn?" 

"Certainly not!" she said as she came back to the bed with a large wooden bowl in her hands. "What? Serve Frodo only one course, and that but a thin liquid, delicious and nourishing as it might be? I think not." 

With a little pillow-arranging assistance from Faramir, Frodo sat up again to eat this new course. Though once he got a look at what was in the bowl, his worry about Rohan cookery returned almost in full force. Actually, it was more correct to say two bowls, for the wooden bowl held a small glass dish nestled on shaved ice. Inside the little dish was a pile of something that quivered and shook. It almost looked like jewels of topaz for the substance had an amber-tinted translucent clarity and sparkle to it, though Frodo was not sure he wanted to put any of it in his mouth. 

He said, "How did you get ice in such hot weather?" 

Eowyn smiled and sat down by the bed, handing the glass dish to Frodo, who looked at it suspiciously. "Oh, it is very easy. In the heart of winter, we go high up in the mountains and bring back blocks of ice. We store them deep in the earth at the base of Edoras, and thus are we able to make such treats as this." 

"Yes, but ... what is it?" 

"Jelly of fowl. It is very good for those who have suffered from fever since it helps build up the strength yet is still very light on the tongue and stomach. Have a spoonful. I think you’ll find the taste not unpleasant." 

Frodo took the bowl from Eowyn and sniffed the contents. Truth to tell, it did not have much aroma and certainly nothing he could name. Well, he’d always liked jelly though he had not tasted any made from chicken or venison or fish or any other creature that had lived and breathed. He dug his spoon into the shaky mass and slipped it into his mouth. Once more he was very glad that he was already comfortably sitting for surely he would have slithered down onto the floor if he had not been. Oh, yes, the very richest essence of fowl was there, in a cool, salty jelly that melted in his mouth and skimmed down his throat without even the tiniest hint of fat left behind on his tongue. It held all the savor of well-roasted chicken condensed down to only its flavor and none of the fuss of bones or skin or stringy flesh. In a word, it was delicious, and Frodo ate it all up and licked the spoon when he was finished. 

"Is there more?" Frodo asked. Oh, he was so hungry now he might even sink his teeth into that stew Gandalf had brought him earlier. Though on second thought, he would prefer more of the fowl jelly or another tumbler of the carrot juice. 

Eowyn, however, had different plans. "Yes, Frodo, there is more in the kitchens, but I have something else for you. If you still have an appetite after this, then I shall send for more of the jelly though I thought you would have more of that tomorrow." 

This time, Frodo had no trepidation at all as Eowyn retrieved something from the table. As a matter of fact, not only was he not apprehensive, he was downright greedy to see what the lady of Rohan would tempt him with. It rested on an oval dish of cream-colored pottery; like the jelly, this thing quivered as well though not quite as much, and its color matched the dish on which it lay. But it was not the color or the motion of this dish that captivated Frodo at first sight, for it was somehow formed into the shape of a running horse, with hooves kicked up and tail flying in some unfelt breeze. 

"Oh, I can’t eat that and ruin its shape," Frodo said, though Eowyn just looked back at him with sparkling eyes and laughed. 

"Oh, but you must. I can easily make more," she said. 

"What is it?" Frodo asked. "I keep saying that, don’t I?" 

"And I am glad you do, and even more that you are enjoying what I’ve made for you. As for what this particular dish is, you’ve already said its name. We just call it "shape" since it’s so quivery and shaky, even when we mold it into a particular form." 

"Shape?" Frodo said. "That’s a very nice name ... almost hobbit-like to my ears. But how did you get it into that shape?" Saying the word "shape" made Frodo giggle. 

"It is a funny name, isn’t it? I’ve always liked it myself. As for this particular shape, it was made from a mold that an armorer made years ago for Eomer when he was but a small boy and suffered from an illness for months quite like what you have now. His appetite was even more particular than yours for our mother could not get him to eat even the fowl jelly. One afternoon she and I were taking a walk outside, and one of the armorers asked her why she looked so downcast. A day later he presented this mold to her, formed from beaten metal, and Mother made a shape that very afternoon and it turned the tide for Eomer’s appetite." Eowyn leaned forward and handed Frodo a little round spoon that had a tiny horse on its handle. "And this spoon. We have always kept both mold and spoon for those who need their appetites tempted." 

Frodo laughed and took the spoon, admiring its form and utility. "I don’t think I need any more persuasion, my lady. This looks delicious though I still don’t like ruining its shape ... but since you say more can be made easily ..." 

With that, Frodo dug into the shape, starting at the hooves and moving upward with greedy bites. Though he recognized all the simple flavors—eggs and sugar and cream and almond—it seemed delightfully new. Too soon, as with the carrot juice and jelly of fowl, it was all gone. 

"Shall I make you more for tomorrow?" Eowyn asked as she took the dish away. 

"Yes, please" Frodo said. "That is, if it is no trouble." 

"Of course not. It is my pleasure. Do you think you might sleep now?" 

"Yes, in a few minutes. Thank you, both of you, for everything. It was good to have your company as well." 

Eowyn moved about the room, snuffing out candles until only one small one burned by the bedside table, and then seated herself again by the bed. "We’ve enjoyed being with you as well, Frodo, and will certainly see you tomorrow." In the light of the candle, Frodo admired her pale hair and profile. "Faramir, there is that small alcove off our bed chamber. What say you to our moving Frodo there in the morning?" 

"Oh, no," Frodo said. "That is too much trouble, and you two just wed. I’m fine here, better than fine with all your care." 

Faramir reached out his hand and rested it on Frodo’s brow. "Quite cool for now, but I think we might keep better track of your temperature’s ups and downs if you agree to Eowyn’s suggestion, as surely I do." 

"No, it is too much," Frodo said. 

"My bed chamber has windows that look out on the countryside; believe me, I get a fine breeze from them." Eowyn laughed. "Sometimes too stiff a breeze, considering the strong wind that we are subjected to no matter the season. Still, the air is much fresher there ..." 

Frodo knew when to capitulate, and he did so with a quick nod of his head. 

"Very well," Faramir said. "It is settled. We shall move you to our rooms on the morrow. And now, my friend, sleep well. Who knows, perhaps such a fine meal will forestall your fever from returning. As is well known in Gondor, it is always wise to feed a fever yet starve a cold." 

Frodo snuggled down into his bed as Eowyn tucked a light sheet over him, for it was still warm in the room and he needed no blankets just now. He smiled a little when he heard her cluck her tongue and reprove Faramir. 

"I think you have it backwards, my love. In Rohan, it is feed a cold and starve a fever." 

"In that case, my beloved wife, have you not ignored your country’s advice?" 

"Certainly not. ‘Starve’ in this case merely indicates not to feed a sick one too fully, such as with the thick stews and breads that were given to poor Frodo here. But it is never wise to completely starve a patient for it does nothing but sap the strength that is needed to recover. Though of course feeding too much is wrong as well, hence the jellies and shapes. I should think the meaning of the saying is obvious. Husband." 

Frodo wondered if Eowyn might hit Faramir when he snickered. "Yes. Very obvious. Crystal clear in fact ... my lady." 

There was a long silence, during which Frodo opened his eyes but just enough to see through his lashes what was transpiring between the newlyweds. Nothing was happening unless you could call sitting still and glaring "something." 

Since he could not look at both of them at the same time, Frodo was not sure who cracked first, that is, whose lip first began to twitch, where that first snort of laughter came from. Not that it really mattered since within moments both of them were rocking back and forth on their chairs as they laughed and laughed and laughed. 

When Faramir caught his breath at last, he choked out, "Was that our first fight?" 

"I’m afraid it is so." 

That set them off again until finally, both of them rose from their chairs, bent over and kissed Frodo on his brow, murmuring that they would be back early in the morning to assist in his move, and walked arm-in-arm to the door. Just before Faramir shut it, he looked back at Frodo and spoke in a very quiet voice. 

"Frodo, you won’t tell anyone of our little quarrel, will you? Not that we care what people think of us, but still ..." Faramir smiled and shook his head as though he realized how foolish he sounded. 

"Don’t worry," Frodo murmured. "Your secret is safe with me." 

The door shut and, sleepy as he was now, Frodo detected renewed laughter as the Prince and Princess of Ithilien made their way down the hall. After a moment, he rolled over and uncrossed his fingers. What a lovely after-dinner story this was all going to make back in the Shire. Particularly that last bit. 

As he was falling asleep, his head cool for the moment and his tummy pleasingly full, Frodo mumbled to himself, "And everyone knows that it’s feed a cold _and_ feed a fever. Foolish humans."

**Author's Note:**

> Now, google.com gives me many entries regarding the "starve a cold, feed a fever" versus "feed a cold, starve a fever" issue, as well as discussions on the inadvisability of "starving" anyone when they’re ill. Though I do have to say that "feed a cold, starve a fever" does seem to be the winner from the "old wives tale" perspective, and one that Frodo seems to have tried to do here, with unwitting assistance from Aragorn and Gandalf. Given their renown as healers, we can only surmise that kingly duties and wedding banquets rather robbed them of their common sense.


End file.
